


the sinking man

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s so much he wants to say – needs to say – but he can’t. There’s no air left in his lungs for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sinking man

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this song from someone’s angst playlist (title lifted from there too)](http://theboofanfic.livejournal.com/%E2%80%9Dhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXXwqGlSliI%E2%80%9D) and a head canon that **coolbreeeze** shared (so really it was fair that she gave this her eyes and editing feels first because of those reasons). Idk where my brain is but obviously not in a happy place...

**the sinking man**

“Get out,”

But he can’t because if he does he won’t come back and if he stays he’ll just hate himself more – but which is worse?

“Go, go away, please,” and Harry’s begging, Louis knows that he is but he can’t, he physically can’t move. Not while Harry looks like this. Not while Harry is _crying_ and he’s pleading and he’s on his knees. And Louis sees all the other times he’s been in this position. Mouth open, lips bruised and red and saliva and precome spread over his chin and cheek from where Louis’ cock slipped out and bounced there. He sees Harry staring up at him, pupils blown and a slow smile forming and words of love and lust and need dripping from his tongue. He sees Harry as he is now, broken and his heart near bleeding onto the floor and it’s this that stops Louis from moving. No matter what Harry says.

“Please, please just go,” and Harry is near choking on the words and Louis is – he doesn’t even _know_ what he is anymore.

Is he the boy who fell so deeply, so completely into a world of shared wonder that felt like he would never find the bottom? Is he the boy who grips a girls hand so tight that she can’t even curl her own back over his? He’s holding on to something she can’t see that he can barely let himself acknowledge at all. Is he the boy who hides behind what they want him to be, what they need him to be because truth and honesty are an unknown that they all can _not_ afford?

Or is he just a boy in love with another boy. Or the boy who also gave part of his heart to a girl. The boy who can’t quite figure out how much of him any of them own – or if he owns any part of himself any longer.

“Get out, just get out,” and Harry is rocking forward now, his decline to the floor imminent and Louis thinks of all the things that floor has seen. Louis groaning above Harry – his trousers and pants not even pulled down, just fly undone, cock pulled out enough for Louis to sink down and forget a week in Nice and forget her smile and his mother’s watchful eyes. Or their pinky tips touching, lying there and soaking up the fact they were together; even LA and Sweden and a near fuck up in New Zealand couldn’t tear them apart. Or Louis lying on his side, knees pulled tight to his chest because he was alone – so alone and Harry wasn’t talking to him and El was new and different and the right to all that he felt was wrong. But not wrong, because loving Harry was too easy – like breathing or singing along to your favourite song or waking up in the morning.

“Can’t you, please. Just leave me,” and Harry is whispering now, his forehead pressed onto the wood and Louis is still standing – somehow standing but his knees are shaking with how hard it is to keep upright. Not to fall and crawl over to the one he loves the most. The one he hurts the most. The one who wants him to go.

“Louis, _please,_ ” and maybe it’s the way Harry says his name – maybe it’s the fact he says it at all – but Louis can’t take it a moment longer.

He opens his mouth. There’s so much he wants to say – needs to say – but he can’t. There’s no air left in his lungs for this. He’s done enough without doing anything; said enough without saying a word. He’s hurt without throwing a punch and he can’t – he can’t do this anymore. He turns and he leaves and he blocks out Harry at his back and he turns his phone off when her face lights the screen and he gets in his car and he drives.

It’s dark when he arrives. Not completely night and not completely day but he gets out of his car anyway. He walks over rocks that line the shore and he thinks of the other times he’s done this. The other places with their hot sand and pebbles and grit made from shells and bone but it all leads to the same place. And he pulls his favourite jumper off, the cream standing out on the damp stones as he walks on, a clear goal in mind. Then it’s his belt, and trousers and the wind is cold but the day/night is warming or cooling down – Louis can’t remember which one it’s supposed to be. He _does_ vaguely recall that dawn and dusk are high risk times to be in the water but he figures if something _does_ want a bite of his arse then let it. Let it.

He’s so numb, so indifferent to anything apart from Harry’s _go, go away_ , that he barely feels the sharp burst of shock from the temperature of the water as it laps at his ankles, surging up with each step away from the shore. He can only hear, _get out, get out_ as he walks in and the ocean wraps her arms around his body and it’s pulling him in, pulling him down and Louis wants it more than anything else. He wants to be held in its arms and be finally free of everything and everyone who want something from him. Those that need his smile and his eyes and his humour. Those that need his tongue and his touch and his . . . .

It’s cold and it’s dark and the world is navy and black and the pressure in his ears prevents him from hearing anything at all. But then he blinks and there’s the wavy moon above and he wonders how he sank so low? The push and pull of the tide move him as his lungs burn and he wonders if this is what it feels like to be Harry. He’s always wanted him so close – needed him at arms length and then nearer like a second skin. But there’s always been something making him push away again. Falling back into the role he’s supposed to play – the one that is expected - that makes his mother smile that much more when he’s with her. Management’s cold sense of approval when it’s his arm around _her_. But then it’s too sweet, too soft in the wrong places and he’s craving being the little spoon and being held instead of being the one being curled into.

His chest is on fire now, and it would be so easy, _so easy_ to stay here in the cold and the dark and he can feel the sea taking its hold. Icy fingertips wrapping seductively over his ankles – silken touches around his hips and tugging at his fingertips.

 _Go, go away_.

 _Get out, get out of here_.

And he closes his eyes and pushes up, spluttering and gasping because – no. No.

And with all the words he should have said, he finds his way back home and to Harry who welcomes him in with open arms.

Until the next time Louis pushes him away and wishes that he was strong enough to just _stay._


End file.
